


What You Own

by deduce_me



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deduce_me/pseuds/deduce_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've never wanted this, and you know it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Own

**Author's Note:**

> this was written to be e/R but it's so ooc that it doesn't even seem like it um

You've never wanted this, and you know it. It was the drawing that did you in- a perfect rendering of yourself, hands out in some wild gesture and the curls of your hair glued to your forehead with sweat. The light of the candles on your face is there, as well as the harsh lines under your eyes that appeared after staying up for days, and you had never pictured him holding a pencil, not when his hands shake so hard when not around the neck of a bottle.

There is passion in these lines, and the next time the two of you are in the same place you seek him out from across the room and there it is, visible as the flicker of fire in his eyes. You've never wanted this, no, never wanted him, but now you have it, whether you it or not.

You're alone but he's there in the wood turning to smoke in the fireplace. You see his eyes in the color of the sky after it rains, catch the smell of him when you walk the streets or the curve of his spine in a flower's stem. You swear you've driven him out a million times, tried to burn this something you're feeling from your skin, but it remains, a lingering but overpowering presence left on everything you used to own.

You kiss him one night, just to see. He's surprised and stiff under the palm of your hand, the polar opposite of that heated passion you'd glimpsed before. In the end you pull away, sure your disappointment shows in every aspect of your being, and depart without a word.

It changes after that. You wish it hadn't. He skirts around you now as if you're a glass that he's accidentally broken, sometimes shooting you a desperately apologetic look that makes your skin crawl. You ache for the fire instead of the uncertainty with no temperature at all- even frigid and uncaring would be better than this. Even so, he permeates your every molecule, and his timid eyes drag angry tears from you when you are alone in bed.

After a while, you try again. He sighs and surrenders shakily into your mouth.  _No_ , you think, and press harder, telling him what you want by drawing it on his tongue with fervor. He just whimpers and clutches a little harder at your shirt in response. You let go of him with a frustrated growl, trying to burn his horrible confused expression away with your glare, and by the time he opens his mouth to speak, you're gone.

He doesn't understand. He tells you this when you press against him a few nights later for the third time. You don't know how to express your desire aloud, or in any other way, really, so you settle for ordering " _You_  kiss  _me_." He does, or tries to, at least, and when he bites at your lips it's a little better. You let him go on for a while but put a stop to it when the kisses cease being fierce and start being sweet instead. You don't really understand, but you know that the gentle movements he makes are turning your insides to jelly in a way you can't stand. This time his lips are red with his cheeks being nearly the same color, and you think you catch a little bit of that fire hiding in the black of his blown pupils. You let your hand squeeze his before you part and only hate yourself a little for it afterwards.

Finally, you get it right. He's drawing, and the fire goes from his eyes straight to his fingers so clearly that you can almost hear the crackle. There are other people around but they fade into the scenery when you climb into his lap and lean in. He goes for the bait, reaching for your lips just as desperately as the other times, but this time you feel your clothes burning away under his fingers. You allow him to devour you, and with one hand in his black curls and another fisted in his shirt, the world has righted itself at last.

That is, until you catch sight of the drawing in his sketchbook. It's you again, but only your face, with all of your good features and imperfections laid out for you to see. The lines are soft, cradling the curve of your chin in a way that suggests not fire but a radiating warmth. You draw in a breath. A sketch such as this may have caused any other person to fall into his arms, but you are already too far in his embrace to get any closer. The only way to go is backwards.

Love. That's the word. You don't like it, don't like the way it claws at your chest and fills you with something that isn't your own. He's still there, hands on your hips, and you know that it was never fire in his eyes, just this. 

You never wanted this, but you want  _love_  even less.

You leave him there like you had before, hungry, lost, and with that ever-present confusion painfully clear on his face. He does not follow you when the door swings shut. You did not expect him to.

As the candle burns down that night, he's the flame, and he's the wax that drips down onto the wood of the table. He's the stars and the light and the darkness around it and the pillow you have pressed against your head. When you cry again that night, more out of shame and the feeling of having your pride stripped from you than anything else, you're not sure what is yours anymore. Even the tears smudged into your cheekbone by shaking fingertips feel like they belong to someone else.


End file.
